


The Northern Princess, And the King of the West

by FallenGabriella



Series: The Northern Queen [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, I think so., Is he his own warning now?, Tywin being Tywin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 10:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12862494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallenGabriella/pseuds/FallenGabriella
Summary: Tywin Lannister gains a new obsession while serving as Aerys' Hand, that spirals out of control.





	The Northern Princess, And the King of the West

There was an undoubtable bitterness to the affair that he allowed himself. An intimate tangle of limbs, sweat, and pain. The grip of agony he could not escape from. Not since Joanna had died and he allowed himself to… _indulge_ was wrong. No, he had brought about this weakness, for that was exactly what it was. A man’s need that festered beneath his skin till it was unbearable, then a candle made its way from his hand, and into the cradle of a particular window in the tower. By the hour of the wolf, he was making his way down. There was another, darker reason for this, but he did not allow himself to think on it. If he did, he was doomed, and he was the Lion of the Rock. He did not bow to such things; he took care of them… Even if it was at the end of a dimly lit hallway he had learned the steps to, in a room that held no warmth, but the vice of a woman’s unwanted, horribly beautiful embrace.

The tunnel had been built with scarce workers, strong and sturdy, as any architect could make it. But then they were gone, not paid for their silence, but their families were. No one could know of this. Of this affair that made his body ache in despair, the way the whore’s hands dragged over his skin was nearly enough to make him gag, so orders had been placed.

No speaking, no touching, and their answers – if asked questions – were short and to the point. He usually wanted them experienced, none blonde. That was a mistake he was not in the mind to repeat. When the itch came, he knew better than to deny it, to make excuses, to bury himself in more work, or to wait for another evening. He silently rose from his chair, grabbed the despicably half burned candle from its hiding place, and placed it in the alcove of the small window in his room. There was never a reply, but he knew his demands had been met.

He scarcely knew himself as he journeyed down, the worn ladder rough under his calloused palms, and so cold to the touch. It shocked his system, made him want to climb instead of descending into the blackness, and remove the candle. But he would not, could not, with the need still so fresh beneath the surface. His blood was already singing, heading to his groin, and he hated it. The horrible weakness that surfaced nigh every four moons… But to deny his baser instinct, to wallow in it was practically madness, so this tunnel had been forged in the sweat ~~and blood~~ of innocent men. Just so he may carve out this pustule sin that would not be ignored.

The hallway was made of darkness, he swore, goading him on with _silent_ whispers, and the promise of something sweeter if he simply closed his eyes – something, someone with golden hair and eyes as green as emeralds. That felt wrong too. It all did, from the smell of the woman beneath him, to the way her hands clasped him, and the noises… That was why there were rules. He reasoned away his own growing apprehension, plunging forward into the black with a steady gait that bellied his inner demons, and did not stop until he saw the light beneath that door.

A warm, glowing, orange blaze beneath, that spanned the floor before him. The door knob felt the same, only the indentions of his fingers upon it, and he pushed it open. The same. It was always the same, and he loathed it with every fiber of his being as much as he did himself. There were only three articles– a wardrobe, one with hideous carvings upon it, a large bed made for several people, and the fireplace. The mantel was simple, no decorations, no emblems, and certainly no crest. There was a stack of firewood beside it, nothing more, and the bed had barely any sheets upon it. It only served one purpose. The only thing in the entire room that might signify ‘ _Lannister’_ , and he despised this place all the more for it, was the pane of red and gold glass in the far-right corner. Chataya had assured him no one could see through, however, but that didn’t stop the clench of his teeth at her gall. The only difference, always the only one, was the girl on the bed.

She didn’t look at him when he opened the door, a first in the few times he had been down here, and she continued to stare into the fire even as he stood there. She didn’t look like the other girls. From what he could see she was pale, so much so he thought her a statue of marble at first. Her raven hair was carefully folded over one shoulder, exposing the smooth column of her neck, and as his eyes moved down he could see the rose of her nipples through her white shift. His jaw tensed, and he swallowed hard.

That was another difference; most of the whores who had come down here before wore little to nothing at all, but she was wearing _white_ … A white silky, almost see through, shift that hung just above her knees, one of the straps falling off of her small shoulder. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was modest, and virginal... Tywin’s eyes roved even further down, noting that her legs were not short, but lean and long for her frame, lightly muscled even.

He cleared his throat. Still no change. Had Chataya sent him a fool? A deaf girl? A mute? He stepped over, the _clack_ of his boot ringing in the small chamber, and she slowly – not suddenly – turned her gaze upon him. Her eyes did not widen with recognition, her face remained as impassive as he wished to be, and her little hands stayed stationary upon her lap. There was no denying now, by the grey of her eyes, that she was of northern blood. Though there was something distinctly… off about them, not quite those of the Stark get, but familiar nonetheless.

His own slowly narrowed. He was not overly fond of such women, but this one… This _girl_ , with her marble skin and dark hair, seemed…different. Then again, he never gazed upon the women he bedded here, so it was of little consequence.

“You have been instructed?” His voice was low, deep in his chest, and she nodded slowly. Tywin’s eyes narrowed. “Can you not speak, girl?” She slowly opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it once more. He almost thought to mock her as a fish.

“Yes, my lord. I can.” Her voice was strong, though soft, and he raised a brow at the way her cool irises sparked in the light, like a match striking a stone. But the grey of her depths bellied that fire, making it seem more like a blaze of ice. Then they slowly narrowed upon him. He almost thought she was challenging him.

“Then answer my question: do you know what is expected of you?” There was the slightest flicker to her eyes, an uncertainty that could not be placed.

“I do.” She finally said, her lips thinning, and her gaze returned to the fire. The slightest frown tugged the edges of Tywin’s lips. “I am not to speak, nor touch you my lord.” He nodded, his jaw working, and tugged at the scarf about his neck with something akin to urgency. He wished to be through of this, to enjoy that single fractured moment, and then be gone...

“Prepare yourself.” The girl’s face reddened and paled all in one fell swoop at his words, his hands already working at his doublet, and he saw her knuckles turn the same shade as her shift. “Did you not hear me girl?” He snapped, his eyes narrowing upon her, but that just made her fidget even more, little fingers ringing the dress… Pulling it tight over her chest, and the sight of the carved muscles underneath, the pebbled rubies below. Was she teasing him? If it was one thing Tywin did not tolerate, it was insolence, and he moved over to her rapidly, words spilling from her mouth at the rage that was no doubt forming on his face:

“I – my lord, I’ve never…” Her eyes darted this way and that, biting her lip, and he stalled. Surely Chataya hadn’t…?

“You’ve never lain with a man?” She opened her mouth, snapped it shut, then shook her head. Her eyes fell to the floor and he felt his jaw clench. If his mood had not soured before, it most certainly had now. How dare she?! Damnit, had his orders not been _explicit_?! Had she made to embarrass him? He could feel his hands clenching sporadically, nails biting into the meat of his palms, and he closed his eyes with a sharp exhale. He reached to button his doublet.

“My lord, please!” The desperation of her voice cut him short, making him turn to her, and he could see the moisture collecting along her lower eye lid. “I…I have to do this, if I don’t, she’ll toss me out! Please, I… I know I can please you if you show me.” She restrained her tears, standing up, and her hands knitted together before her. The icy fire she’d had a moment ago had returned in full force, though it was tempered by the need there too… Tywin restrained the need to roll his eyes.

“Lie down on the bed.” Gods’, she looked so relieved when he said that. The girl slowly backed up, crawling backwards to lie on the sparse pillows that occupied the bed. When she situated herself, he had to turn his gaze away from the dip of her stomach, and the valley of dark curls that was scarcely hidden (though somewhat visible) beneath her shift. The raven locks that spanned around her looked like the cresting waves of the ocean at night, as they beat the worn rocks beneath Casterly, while her skin might as well have been the glow of the moon. He restrained himself from joining her too quickly, instead, he laid his doublet down carefully upon the back of a chair. Tywin approached slowly, crouching upon the bed, and stalked forward – all roving muscle beneath bronze skin, and as graceful as the lion they’d named him.

He straddled her legs, hands cupping just above her knees, and he was shocked to find her as cool as the stone. She gasped sharply, his eyes finding hers in the same instance, and he held her in that ethereal embrace as his hands slid up. His touch was light, as if she were made of porcelain, but his thumbs dug in just enough to indent her pale skin. Her lashes fluttered, the emeralds of his irises roving down to gaze upon what he unveiled, and his breath hitched at his prize. Perhaps he wouldn’t punish Chataya after all…

The wavy, dark hairs gave way to a pink, full set of lips, and one of Tywin’s hands pressed against them carefully. Her breath hitched, his eyes taking in the sharp rise of her chest, and the way her hips jumped subtly against his hand. His fingers opened her, jaw tightening at the way her body responded by barely raising her lower half off the bed, and he felt his cock hardening rapidly at the sight. A feeling he both detested and languished in as he exposed her inner softness. Unlike the rest of her, this was warm, hot even, and his breaths became heavier at the realization that it was him… She was giving herself to him.

The level of intimacy was… not right, and he repositioned himself without removing his hand. Tywin laid down beside her, supporting himself upon his elbow, and brushed his fingers over her bud. The reaction he received made him twitch. Her back arched, mouth opening in a near silent cry, but there was an undeniable gasp of pleasure. His jaw was clenched so hard it was beginning to hurt, as he tried to remember restraint, his fingers circling her opening in smooth circles, and he gave the smallest shudder when a surge of dampness accompanied the motion. She was sensitive, her bundle of nerves ripe for the taking, and he continued to deny himself.

“Close your eyes,” he instructed, doing so himself, breaths coming faster and heavier, as his knuckles brushed her warming folds further apart. He sunk a finger in, listening to another one of her gasps, and allowed himself to mold it in his mind. A deeper pitch, not as desperate, and –

“I don’t want to.” He blinked, golden-scribed emerald rising to meet grey, and inhaled sharply at what he found. The girl was staring at him, her hands still tangled in the white shift, and he swallowed hard. His manhood was actually starting to leak. He needed to hurry, least he spill prematurely like a boy, but why should it matter? She could – would – tell no one. This was about his pleasure, but at the same time he was not going to embarrass himself so. By all rights, he should be angry with her. She was to do as told, but she defied him by taking in every inch of his face, as blank as it was, with her misty irises.

He growled, pushing another finger into her, and he gave the slightest hum of approval as her head fell back. He rose back to his knees, his shoulder aching, but he ignored the tingling, cool surge of blood beneath the surface. His fist knotted in her shift, shredding it as his other hand pumped in and out of her, and her next noise was one of surprise and ecstasy – a moan. Tywin actually shivered for a moment, enraptured by the primal sway of her hips against his fingers, and the shift of lean muscles below pale skin. His eyes followed the way up from the vee of her sex, over the wide carved ridges of her hips, and up the expanse of a flat stomach. Then to full, shapely breasts, topped by the buds of roses, and delicate shoulders led to an unmarked neck.

There was a flush to her now, along her cheeks and the tops of her breasts, and dappled across her thighs. Tywin licked his lips, breaths deep and harsh in his throat, as he watched his fingers slide through her lather. He forbid himself to imagine his cock there, if he did, he might just lose his mind. He removed his hand, chest twisting with the cry of need that left her, as it was so close to **her** but not. Why had he kept his eyes open?

Tywin’s hands found the front of his trousers, scraping across the leather, and he wondered why he hadn’t removed them before. This wasn’t right. He always undressed meticulously before, now he was clawing at them just to get them off, and his cock throbbed from the confined. It hurt. It hurt even more when her hands joined in an attempt to help him, knitting with his, and then they pulled together and he was free. He rumbled appreciatively, a groan torn from his throat, and he slowly lowered himself to an elbow over her.

She didn’t look scared, nervous, yes, but not scared. Tywin shook away the thought that she’d broken all the rules, more importantly that he’d allowed her to, and simply took himself in hand to drag his blunt tip between her wet folds. Her breath hitched with his, face pressed to his chest, and her hands were knitted in the sheets. That wasn’t right either. However, nothing had felt right the moment he’d stepped in the room.

She made him feel everything he didn’t want: necessary, desired, and… needed.

“Touch me,” he ordered, voice deeper than it had been in a long time, and far more desperate. He merely hoped she was too naïve to notice. Her hands found his abdomen, blunt nails curling into the Lion’s hide, and he let out a gruff rumble of pleasure. She felt so warm and alive, especially her center, which he continued to tease and torture himself with. He gave the shallowest thrusts against her, catching her heat a few times, and every once and awhile the head would come close to penetrating. Why was he doing this? The dampness of her soaked him, her curls pearled with the moisture of her essence, and he grunted when a particular thrust had him scraping against her bud.

The girl cried out, a call of need, and he answered her by stroking inside her, pushing the heat forward to lick at both of them, and drown them both willingly in icy fire. Her body bowed away from the foreign intrusion even as she craved it, and he removed his hand from himself to curl it in the sheets by her head. His other hand gripped her hip, rooted her in place, and held her still as he pressed further inside. Wet, hot, _tight_ – oh gods’, this was monstrous. Why had they taken **her** and placed him _here_? Ripped away the only one he’d loved with all his soul, then let him know this ecstasy again? Why this _girl_?

This was not how this was supposed to be. He came here to forget, to touch **her** one last time, to pretend, and know **her** love if even for a few seconds. Now it was shattered, the illusion never even able to take root, even as he clawed for some semblance of what once was… What bloomed in its place was…

The touch of his manhood to that muscle stopped him, sweat dripping from his brow, and her hands gripped his sides. He felt her nails in his ribs, unable to look… He slowly rocked, he did not thrust forward and destroy what was there. No, he took his time, and used his patience – which was barely holding on by a tether – to make her accommodate him. She relented, the deep breaths she took beneath him brushing against his chest, and he swallowed hard. Tense moments passed of grips tightening, breaths hitching, and then… Finally, the pressure was gone, and where there had once been a prison was only freedom.

Tywin shuddered, trying to keep himself from shaking, and started the push and pull motion. Yes, this was it, a concept a fool could know and find enjoyment in. But the whores usually sapped him of that. Well, the first few had, but then the rules had put an end to it. What rules? Where were they now? They had been broken upon the floor the second he’d entered, lying like shattered glass, and the window in the corner mocked him by staying as complete as it always had. His thrusts became erratic, his desire turning into fear, and then something akin to anger. He wanted to be gone, he’d lingered too long already –

Her hands… She was still touching him; he’d told her to. But now, they were cupping his face, and he nearly withdrew with a snarl. He’d been so lost in his desperation that he hadn’t even noticed she’d disregarded the greatest taboo, but he couldn’t. For when his hard-emerald gaze lowered to hers he knew he was lost.

He had been robbed.

He was a Lannister, his name made by the weight of gold, the respect he’d worked for all his life. No one laughed at a Lannister, no one stole from them. And yet, here he was, taken in by grey, like the mist over the waters beneath Casterly in the early morn. The girl could have done anything, _anything_ , and he would not have noticed. Pushed a knife into his ribs and left him to bleed out. She could have killed _Tywin Lannister_.

All she did was cry out with abandon. It made him want her more.

His knees ached, hips rocking, his internal protests falling upon the deaf ears of his body. He pushed forward, not out, because he couldn’t. Because always, always upon the precipice of leaving her, she clenched – all fluttering petals, and constricting wet, tight heat. Her nails raked over his chest, thin lines of red left in her wake, burning him with a pain he needed, something to ground him here, even as his mind reeled from it all. Too real, too affectionate, and he felt himself falling into a panic. He made a noise stolen from his past, one he’d fought hard to bury with **her** – _Need_.

His breath gone, a groaning grunt echoed from the recesses of his empty lungs, and he gasped upon the heady air of their arousal. He reached, his hands twisting in the sparse sheets as he pulled her to him, and another sound escaped him – one right after the other – as the flush of her was brought against him. She fit… The curve and dip of her hips to his, the softness of her pale flesh pressing in where pieces of him were missing. Her fingers dug into the scars of his shoulders, down his back, and he grunted against her hair. The silk of her nipples rubbed against the roughened skin of his chest, her moans accompanied by his groans. He pressed his face to her temple, unable to withdraw a few inches from her, but then he couldn’t at all. His calloused palms grabbed her thighs, pulling them over his waist, and she obeyed to keep them together.

It wasn’t enough, all he was doing was rutting, and grinding bodily against her. So close… He was leaking so deep inside of her, twitching, and his balls were drawn up so much it was agony. She continued to cry out, the pound of his hips suddenly a mercy to this maddening desire he forced both of them to endure. He was drawing it out, pushing with no relief, but it was coming. The precipice was in sight and he was dragging them both there by the skin of his teeth.

But then… Then she moved, the angle of her hips shifting, and his breathing stopped and stuttered. He had thrust deeper, her muscles clenching him, and her heels dug into his lower back to spur him on. Tywin’s eyes blacked out, voice working against his will, and he roared his completion against her. It was an inferno of ice, a torrent of it brought over them – so cold it burned – and he felt her shuddering all around him. Had she screamed? Yes, her sound matching his until they wove together, and became one.

His hands gripped her tightly to him, as did hers, breaths hot, and bodies shaking in the aftermath. He panted, blinking rapidly. He felt so boneless that he knew if he closed his eyes too long, he might just collapse, and stay there the rest of the evening in slumber.

No, that was dangerous – as if this whole escapade hadn’t been already – but that didn’t stop him from lingering. His arms stayed locked around her, still inside her, and she cradled him close. Her hands strayed over his shoulders, sliding through the sweat of his back to rest upon his ribs, where she held him. Tywin remained motionless, taking in her scent, and he rapidly denied that the smell of her made him want to devour her. He’d never done that with a whore, and he had no intention of doing so.

Finally, after a few moments, he withdrew, and her hands swiftly and easily left him. He sat on the edge of the bed, swallowing the grit that formed in the back of his throat, and stood. He was still in his trousers… They hung low upon his hips, even so, the front of them was more than a little soaked with their combined bodily fluids. Tywin sighed, making a note to ask Chataya to have a basin and wash stand put in here as well. No. He threw the thought away as soon as he’d made it. He would not.

This could not happen again. At least, not with her. He slowly fixed his pants as much as able, tying the strings once more, and fetched his doublet from the chair. As he was redressing, however, his eyes cut to her. The girl now sat on the edge of the bed, once more staring into the fire, and for some reason… It set his teeth on edge.

“What is your name?” Her grey eyes turned on him, all mist over the sea, and he pushed aside the feeling of ease that tried to settle upon him.

“Willow.” One word, a name that was unlike most people’s, and he paused – half way finished with his doublet.

“Who named you that?”

“My grandfather. My mother always wanted to see one, but she never did. She liked the tales people used to tell about them.” Willow stopped, closing her mouth, and her eyes fell to the floor this time. His jaw twitched.

“What tales?” Despite his better judgement, he found it in himself to ask. She took a shaky breath, her reply touched by a sort of sorrow:

“They said if you burned a branch of willow, it would please the goddess of the moon… And that it would attract love and bring healing.” She shrugged her shoulders, slowly standing from the bed, and collected the ruined remains of her shift. “Not that having such a name has ever brought me either of the two.” She looked at him finally, flinching from the intensity of his gaze, but he said nothing. He didn’t even finish with his doublet, he merely turned on his heel, and exited into the darkness of the tunnel. The door slammed shut behind him and Willow stood alone for many long moments.

The doors to the wardrobe opened and Willow tried desperately to cover herself, but she stopped when she saw who it was… Alyce, one of Chataya’s favorites, who glided through. “You did it!” She cheered, practically dancing over on ballerina’s feet, and grabbed both of her hands in a loving clasp. “I can’t believe it! How was he? What did you do?”

Willow frowned, shaking her head. “You know I can’t talk about it. Come on, let’s get back.” Alyce pouted, following after her as she walked from the room.

“Very well, I guess I’ll just have to find out how much he pays Chataya to see how good you were!” The grey-eyed girl scowled at the fiery headed woman. Alyce stood much taller than her, with a curvaceous figure, and eyes the color of jade gems. The flowing silks around her did little to hide what was underneath, all royal purples, and winding golds… Something that made Willow think of the Lord who had come to take her maidenhead. Who had asked her name. She sighed.

“I suppose you will.” That just made Alyce pout again, even as she closed the wardrobe behind them, and hooked her arm with Willow’s. They walked down the tunnel, hip-to-hip, even as the fire in the room died to embers…

**Author's Note:**

> And thus it begins, oh boy, hopefully I didn't butcher Tywin too badly. Trust me, it gets worse before it gets better!


End file.
